Author's note: Although events follow on from "Three in a Tent Made for Two" this is a stand-alone story.
*****
Greg and Tim were sniggering like school kids at the open sash window. They were tearing off sheets from the notepad headed Hoppingmaid Holiday Flats, folding them over and over till they were tight packets and throwing them down obliquely into the back yard next door.
'So immature,' I said, wearily. We were in the bedroom and I was sitting in the hard utilitarian chair, leafing through What's On in Palstow. Not much, I'd concluded. I made a note of the address of the gym. That afternoon, even the beach under the beating sun had proved a disappointment. One or two girls had looked promising but the odd bit of flirting had fizzled out and maybe Tim, Greg and I are a touch intimidating en masse and it takes a special kind of girl to handle the three of us.
'Dam—nearly,' Tim said. I got up and went to join them.
The flats occupied an address in a Georgian terrace otherwise taken up by private residences. Ours was on the third floor, the bedroom window almost directly above the dividing wall between the flats' back yard and the narrow rear garden to the right. Immediately on the other side of the wall, the girl lay on her front on a sun lounger opened out flat; her head was turned away from us and resting on the backs of her hands. In her brief black bikini she was tanning nicely in the hot sun. Little packets of paper surrounded her.
'Must be asleep,' Greg said. 'Two or three of our missiles have made contact as you can see. If she'd just look lively, roll over had let us see what her front looks like then our work would be done—for now at least.'
'You could go around on some pretext, knock on the door and say "hello",' I said, feeling waspish. Pathetic that we were reduced to this after that scorching time with the girl up in the Lake District.
'That'd be too easy,' Greg said. He wrote his mobile phone number onto another sheet and folded it to the size of a postage stamp. He nudged me, 'Hey Alex, she's stirring.'
Greg threw with a sharp flick of his wrist and the packet sailed out and then plummeted. Down, down, straight into the crack between her peachy and satisfyingly large arse cheeks, missing the cris-crossing of black strings.
'Bullseye,' Tim said, grudging in his admiration.
'Yes, my aim was true,' Greg said, staring down intently.
Reaching back, her fingers delicately took hold of the packet. Flipping onto her side, a formidable rack swung into view supported in small black cups. We all audibly caught our breaths. A strong, fine-boned face; hoop earrings, a gold necklace—finely wrought. Leaning on one elbow she flicked back a long strand of raven black hair and opened out the packet and was on the point of checking out the windows above when a voice rumbled and something bulked into view.
We backed away from the window, vistas of possibility withering in our expressions. I edged forward again and cautiously peered over the windowsill.
He was like an old-school Russian weightlifter with his massive torso set on his comparatively under-developed legs. There was rather too much jewellery in the form of a necklace of thumbnail-sized gold links, a thick wrist band and signet rings on his fingers. Dark blue tattoos covered his massive biceps. His head was large and shaved to baldness.
She was on her front again while he rubbed sun tan lotion into her shoulders.
I said, 'What's she going to do with your little billet doux, Greg, I wonder?'
He looked a little pale.
'A guy like that could tear us limb from limb,' Tim said helpfully.
'Fit though, isn't she,' I said.
When the man entered the gym later that afternoon, we thought the game was up until it became clear the place was where he got himself to the size he was. We didn't linger.
The next day we were in the Sandy View Cafe when Greg's phone rang. He listened, his expression flickering between wariness and excitement. 'Sorry,' he said after a moment. 'We were a bit bored.'
We? I mouthed. More words into Greg's ear. He hissed an aside at us, 'Says I'm a good shot.' He spoke into the phone, 'Oh, we're just travelling.' Questioning inflections in the squeaks from the phone. 'Oh, we've been all over.' After more listening he said, 'Sandy View Cafe,' followed by 'Yes, we can wait . . . bye then.'
'Yes we can,' he said, with a downward pull of his clenched fist, his lower teeth bared.
She was fashionably late by five minutes. 'Statuesque' summed her up. Her black hair was abundant, shiny as crude oil. Necklace and bracelets looked good on her—and she knew where to stop, unlike her husband. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, tight, knee-length jeans, a cheesecloth top.
We made a space for her at the table. 'Greg,' I said. He stopped looking agog, ascertained what she would like to drink and went to the counter and returned with iced tea. We forgot to get anything more for ourselves.
She was cool, poised, relaxed in her questioning. What did we do? Where were we from? She batted her thick eyelashes as if our dull answers were sparkling bon mots, leaning forward, chin in hand, her breasts pressing out the thin close weave of the cheesecloth top. Tim looked dazed, as if she were some porn star. Greg wore a stiff grin. Despite being stiff myself, the part in question being out of sight below the table, I wasn't such a pushover.
'Was that your husband?' I said.
'Oh, don't mind him,' she said, accurately cottoning on that the chap might give us pause. The fact she was keen to reassure us was promising in itself—and I liked the way her lioness gaze raked over my shoulders.
She said she had some shopping to do and would 'drop round later'. A final quick glance over the three of us, a smile of her red lipsticked lips, and she was rising from her chair and telling us she was looking forward to a really good chat, and her spin on the word 'chat' sent a wave of heat through my groin.
After she'd gone, I said, 'So long as it's not her husband paying us a visit.'
Greg looked at me with mock gravity, 'Well, that's a risk we'll have to take.'
We nervously paced the floor of the flat later. Hearing hard tapping steps on the wooden staircase, we froze. She knocked and was inside before we'd finished our chorus of 'Come in.' I locked the door behind her.
An inch or two taller than me in her lethal three-inch spike heels. A relief when she sat on the edge of the double bed we'd stipulated, in addition to the two singles, when we'd made the booking. She made a token visual examination of the room, placed her mobile phone on the bedside cabinet and began to unbutton her cheesecloth top. All very businesslike.
'That chap of yours looks quite a geezer,' I said. Greg had uncertainly started plucking at the hem of his tee shirt, looking at Tim and me to follow suit.
'Oh he's a pussy cat—most of the time,' she said, shrugging off her top. That distantly registered as I took in a more than ample amount of breast flesh, all firm and high-mounted in a lacy black bra. The biological imperative kicking in, we caught up quickly, pumped and primed as the cotton and denim fell away, teeth bared and wet, balls tightening as we got onto the big arena of the bed, not wearing a stitch, she pulling her jeans out from under her bottom and off over her heels before flinging them with force across the room.
She stretched out her long legs, tipped her face sideways in consideration of them before a hundred-watt smile and a mock-submissive downward glance asked us what we thought. Copping a feel, we let her know her confidence was justified. It didn't really need three pairs of hands to drag her lacy black panties off the generous width of her loins, revealing a neatly trimmed black landing strip, but it was more fun to. Down, down those endless legs they went, and then they were over and off her red-painted toenails poking out of the open-toed stilettos. The latter she made no attempt to remove—and we were as one with her on that. Jostling her boobs out of her lacy bra next, then weighing the big warm globes in our hands. All the while her expression had been controlled and lustful as she took in the male flesh surrounding her, the three hard-as-nails cocks, a look that said, Yes, I've chosen well—and of course she had.
Greg's a bit empty-headed at times, apt to speak out of turn but girls forgive him as he's bodacious from his black close-cropped hair to his toes. Muscle definition all over despite being a lazy arse gym-wise. Tom's smooth as a marble statue. Clever, boyish, rather earnest at times—and a bit of a novice in our company. Me, just a dazzling archangel with my dirty blond hair, dark-blue eyes, pec-appeal and the rest—and modest withal. The three of us randy as rabbits, with maybe something equine in our ancient ancestry that informed the oft-noted and above average size of our equipage, or "tackle" as Greg liked to put it.
